


Pinch Me

by fleurofthecourt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelic Grace Cures the Mark of Cain, Appendicitis, Castiel and Dean Winchester Being Idiots, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Neighbors, Post-Mark of Cain, Sick Castiel, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3445316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurofthecourt/pseuds/fleurofthecourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the fallout of the Mark of Cain, Dean asks Cas to take his memories, not realizing the price. He learns what Cas failed to tell him under mitigating circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So.... this started out as a Neighbors AU and then got wildly out of hand. I'm so sorry.
> 
> Previously titled: Amnesia and Appendicitis ... ~~but then I listened to Barenaked Ladies and was like, this fic is already a train wreck and I love this song, so why don't I just change the title?~~

“Are you certain this is what you want?” 

“Only way I can live with myself, Cas. Just... promise me something?” 

Cas’ eyes narrow, wary of the request. He knows now that he is not always willing to do what Dean asks. 

“Do yourself a favor, man, don’t get to know me. Probably make a shoddy regular Joe too.” 

“I very much doubt that," Cas sighs as he places his hand against Dean’s cheek. “Dean... are you...are you really sure?” 

“Jesus Christ, Cas. Just do it already,” Dean clenches his fists as Cas cups his cheeks and resignedly allows his grace to flow through Dean, taking the memories of the Mark, of the Trials, of Purgatory, of the Apocalypse, of Hell, of hunting, of everything in Dean’s life that wasn’t human -- including himself -- away. 

Dean slumps backwards into his arms, a fragile shell of fragmented memory, and Cas lifts him up before pressing their foreheads together and whispering gently, “Not knowing you would be no favor."

 

 _One Year Later_

 

Dean doesn’t know the guy who lives next door all that well -- what he does for a living, where he’s from, and all that crap is a complete mystery -- what he does know is that the guy pretty much lives to exasperate him. 

The thing is, Dean forgets to close his garage most of the time --it’s in his backyard, it’s not visible from the road, and when his Baby’s not in it, there’s not much of anything of real value inside -- and Cas takes this open door as some kind of blanket invitation to borrow his stuff. 

It’s not. 

And Dean’s told him time and time again that it’s not. But every time Cas just sort of squints at him and says something stupidly logical like, “But if you were not using it, and I brought it back, you have helped me and I have not hindered you. I do not see the issue.” 

And whenever Dean growls back that he might have wanted to use the item, whatever it was, himself, his freaking stalker of a neighbor simply gives him a hard, calculating stare and states plainly how Dean's plans would have interfered. 

"Could have wanted to go Tom Sawyer on my fence tonight, Cas. You don't know."

"You have been at work since sun up, and you told your brother not an hour ago you would meet him and his date across town for dinner. You really have the time to, uh, ‘go Tom Sawyer’ on your fence?" 

"Just put the damn brush back, you freaking gremlin, and mind your own god damn business."

And so on. 

But today, Dean, despite himself, is a little worried about the guy. Because his watering can has been missing for two whole days. 

And, the thing is, Cas may be a pain in the ass who has literally never asked Dean’s permission to go in his garage and knows far too much of Dean’s personal business for his own good, but, for whatever it’s worth, Cas has always, always brought his stuff back before he actually needed it. 

And so, Dean is frowning over his withering begonias trying to convince himself that the odd feeling that has settled in the pit of his stomach is nothing. Cas just forgot to bring his watering can back because, really, the guy should probably join Dennis the Menace and Mrs. Kravitz on a top ten worst neighbors list or something.

But worry gnaws and gnaws at him until finally he finds himself at Cas’ front door pounding on the knocker. 

Once he’s satisfied that only the deaf hasn’t heard him knocking, he stuffs his hands into his jeans and glances around anxiously. Cas’ crappy Lincoln is parked crookedly, more crookedly than Dean’s ever seen it, against the curb, and so, since Dean’s been in his front yard weeding for most of the day, he thinks the guy’s either home or Houdini. And after three minutes of complete silence, Dean’s leaning towards Houdini. 

He’s so startled when Cas does finally open the door that he forgets why he’s there. He just gapes at Cas waiting for his neurons to fire. 

Before they do, Cas says, in lieu of formalities, “Your watering can. Your begonias.” 

“Yeah, I...” Dean scratches at the back of his neck feeling kind of sheepish. Because, while he does actually need his watering can back, that’s really not why he’s there. “Yeah.” 

He doesn’t know what exactly he thought was wrong here, and looking at Cas suggests that he’s probably overreacted. From a glance at his slightly pale skin, Dean comes to the conclusion that, at worst, Cas has a cold, which is certainly reason enough for him to be a little absentminded, but not for Dean to come rushing over in a panic. 

Except Cas completely disproves this theory by turning around, saying that he’s going to his backyard to get the watering can, and abruptly doubles over, hissing in pain. 

And like that Dean is over him pushing him onto his couch and digging for his cell phone. “What’s going on, Cas?” 

“Your watering can...” Cas starts and Dean shakes his head. 

“Forget about it. Just tell me what’s going on. You hurt?” 

“I...my abdomen. I have not...I have not been stabbed, but it feels as though I have,” Cas says. 

Dean tries his best to ignore the way Cas sounds like he’s speaking from actual past stab wound experience. “And you’re not seeing a doc about it because...?” 

Cas frowns for a moment. “I had sort of hoped the feeling would dissipate on its own.” 

“Okay. And, uh, how long you been hoping that?” Dean asks. 

Cas knits his brow. “Since around this time yesterday, I believe." 

“That long, huh?” Dean says. “Well, driving you to the hospital or calling 911. Your pick.” 

“This is a medical emergency?” 

With the terrifying realization that Cas is dead serious, Dean kind of snaps. “Yeah, Einstein, someone stabs you, you treat it. You feel like you’ve been stabbed, you don’t sit on it and hope you get lucky enough to have your dumbass neighbor, that doesn’t even really like you, come check up on you. Now let’s go.” 

Contrary to any expected reaction, Cas, though clearly still in pain, fights against a barely suppressed smirk the whole way to the Impala. 

“What?” 

“You came to check on me.” 

“Yeah, well, doesn’t mean...” Dean abruptly drops his hand to bat Cas’ away from the door to the backseat, “Hey, what... what are you doing? Get in the front. This ain't a taxi.” 

Cas shakes his head, as if he’s just remembered something. “Of course.” 

XXX 

Getting Cas admitted doesn’t take much more than his vitals being checked and the triage nurse asking him a few pointed questions, throughout which Dean stands awkwardly to the side, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, unsure of what he’s supposed to do. 

On the one hand, he barely knows Cas, and he would clearly be leaving him in very capable hands if he just sauntered out the way he came in. On the other hand, he can’t just abandon the guy who can’t tell appendicitis from a hangnail. 

And, if he’s really honest with himself, he kind of likes this weirdly serious, dorky guy that won’t stay out of his garage, and therefore doesn’t think he should leave the guy here all by his lonesome. 

So, when Cas, looking unaccountably hopeful, asks if he’ll stay, Dean reaches over the arm of his wheelchair and squeezes his shoulder. “See you when you’re down an organ, buddy.” 

“Well, it’s not vital to my existence,” Cas furrows his brow before adding gravely,“I think I will live.” 

Dean snorts before giving his shoulder another squeeze. “Dude, they do this all the time. You’ll be okay.” 

XXX 

Somehow, between Cas getting shuffled around the hospital and Dean trying to keep up with it, he ends up with Cas’ coat. He’s sitting in an unoccupied inpatient room, waiting for Cas to return from surgery, with the trenchcoat draped over the side of the chair, his cell phone buzzing insistently from inside the right pocket. 

Figuring that whoever’s trying to call Cas might be interested in knowing that his neighbor took him to the hospital, Dean tugs the phone out. 

“Cas’ phone. This isn’t Cas.” 

“Dean?" 

“Sam?” 

It's difficult to say which of them sounds more confused. 

“Why do you have Cas’ phone?” 

“Better question, why you calling Cas?” 

“I’m friends with Cas,” Sam says, as though this is common knowledge. 

“Yeah? Since when? Never seen you two palling around next door,” Dean says. 

“Well, you wouldn’t. He usually comes over here,” Sam says, and Dean can hear a strained hesitation in this explanation that he doesn’t like. 

“Okay, well, your pal here is laid up,” Dean says. “His appendix was about to pop so took him to the hospital.” 

“What?!... is he okay?” Dean’s taken aback by how concerned Sam sounds. He knew Sam and Cas knew each other, but he didn’t think it was very well. Apparently it was way better than he thought. 

“Well, don’t think he’s going to be up for your nerdy running crap later, if that’s what you’re thinking, but think he’ll be okay, Sasquatch.” 

“Okay, good. That’s good. Well, text me the room number, and I’ll meet you down there.” 

Way, way better than he thought. 

Dean absently rests his hand against Cas’ coat. “Wait... do I know Cas?” 

“Dean,” Sam says haltingly, in a way that tells Dean that the answer is definitely ‘yes.’ “Just text me where you’re at.” 

“Fine. You’re going to spill when you get here,” Dean says and the line clicks. 

He drops Cas’ phone into his lap and starts rubbing at his temple, trying to dredge up something that’s just out of reach. There are giant gaps in his memory, whole years where all he can remember is him and Sam in the Impala together, taking on some vague mission to save the world. From what, he doesn’t have a frigging clue. But he thinks the whole road trip vigilante thing hadn’t really worked out for them in the end since what he doesn’t remember, Sam won’t tell him. 

But he’s starting to suspect that Castiel may be a big piece of the puzzle. 

 

 _One Year Earlier_

“You used up your grace because he asked you to take his memories?” Sam stares helplessly at Dean’s limp form, lying peacefully in the backseat of the Lincoln as the night sky passes overhead. “Did you two think this through? At all?”

“I wanted to help him, Sam,” Cas says. “He couldn’t live with what he did. I feared what he would do.” 

“Did he know ...that you were using up your grace to do this?”

Cas looks down at the steering wheel evasively. “I suspect he would not have asked if he had realized what I was giving up.” 

“You’re right. He wouldn’t have,” Sam says coldly. 

He knows Cas thought he was doing the right thing, but, for Cas, that’s usually the problem. 

“I understand your frustration,” Cas says. “But understand mine. I’ve been in Dean’s place. I’ve had far too much blood on my hands. So much blood that I had to forget who I was, that I had to remove myself from what I did, that I had to choose penance over coming home, that I could barely forgive myself long after you and Dean had. The guilt of seeing that Mark gone only to see the two of us lifeless on the ground, spared only by the grace of God, is not something that Dean was ready to live with.” 

“But he would have been, one day,” Sam says, shaking his head. 

“He will remember, Sam,” Cas says. “This is not permanent. My grace was not strong enough for that, and even if it had been, I would have been selfishly reluctant. I really would like to be remembered.” 

And although he’s still generally pissed off about the whole situation, because clearly Cas and Dean are both incredible idiots, Sam is a little bit mollified by that. “Okay. So, how long’s this patchy memory thing going to last?” 

“Well, seeing the two of us together may trigger the memories, but that will really be up to Dean,” Cas says. “He has to want to remember. And when he does, likely it will be a painful process, but we will be there for him.” 

“Yeah, of course we will,” Sam says. “So, where are we taking him?” 

“Sioux Falls.” 

“Okay. Why?” 

“Dean told me some time ago that the two of you inherited Bobby’s house, and after Dean told me what happened to it, I felt responsible for its destruction.” 

“Okay?” 

“And...before I took Dean’s memories, I used some of my remaining grace to build two houses there. One for you and Dean. One for myself, so I will be close by if you should need me. The houses are small, but I think they will be adequate.” 

“You can build houses?” 

“Could. I could build houses.” 

“Right, right. Okay, well, if seeing us together is going to trigger something, maybe just one of us should be there?” 

Cas nods wistfully. “I will call Nora and ask her to recommend me to another Gas N’ Sip.” 

“No, Cas, I meant you. I’ve got some loose ends to tie up with the Mark. I’ve got to get the word out that Dean’s not a threat anymore. And I’m going to write up everything that happened, and get that information filed away in the Men of Letters library and some other hunter libraries, so no one has to go through what we did. Then maybe I can stay with Jody? I think she’s got a guest bedroom.” 

Cas’ lips quirk at the corners. 

“So take care of him for me, huh?” 

Cas smiles. “I will do my best.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trainwreck continues. Really, guys, I'm not exactly sure what I'm doing with this fic or where I'm going with it... 
> 
> Enjoy?

Cas blinks awake slowly, not fully aware of where he is -- still in the hospital, he judges, from the line of beds on both sides of him, but not a part of it he was in earlier. 

He doesn’t recognize anyone near him, and he doesn’t like how visible and vulnerable he feels lying weaponless in the open hallway. Not that he expects to be attacked or anything. He just generally feels safer with a blade up his sleeve. 

He shifts experimentally, finding that though there is still significant pain around his abdomen, it is no longer the knife to his side that it had been. 

He’s not sure what he would have done if Dean hadn’t come over when he had. 

He’d been considering calling Sam, to ask if he needed to see a doctor, but this -- this was beyond the scope of what he’d suspected. 

This is one of the biggest issues he has with being human. He has no barometer for what is normal. He just fumbles along making his best guess and, often, too often, he is wrong. 

After he’d broken his wrist, he’d thought he could make it through an eight hour shift at a cash register, not remotely thinking through the fact that he was going to be constantly handling, at the very least, currency. Two hours in, Nora had handed him a bottle of anti-inflammatories and sternly told him to get out of there and get some rest. 

He’d ended up falling asleep at a table in the town library for three hours. 

Another time, after tending his new vegetable garden for a few hours too long, he’d rushed over to Sam’s apartment, fearing that the angry red swatches forming on his neck and arms were signs of some strange disease. 

Sam almost didn’t hold it together long enough to bring him a bottle of aloe. 

So now he wears too much sunscreen and worries about new toothbrushes making his gums bleed. 

These physical ailments, however, while confusing and irritating, are not what truly make him ache. 

He had originally thought that as an angel he was, more or less, immune to true human feeling. Shortly after he fell, he learned that this was not at all true, as every one one of his emotions was exaggerated ten fold. 

He had felt an overwhelming guilt for the things that he had done to Heaven both then and before. 

He had felt an overwhelming anger at Metatron for tricking him and making him feel everything so profoundly. 

He had felt an overwhelming, and, frankly, bewilderingly strong need to find Dean, simply to tell him what had transpired. 

Now, he understands all too well from where that last feeling had sprung. 

He feels it still.

And, now, every time Dean looks at him, looking straight through him, without any hint of recognition, with no memory of any part of their messy, broken relationship -- his heart completely shatters. 

He knows it’s his own doing. 

He also knows it was what Dean had asked of him. 

And earlier, he’d been too wrapped up in the simple comfort of Dean’s presence to think through what Dean’s anxiety over him could have meant -- that he was starting to remember. 

So, with the realization that Dean really shouldn’t be at the hospital with him, for his own sake, because getting back the memories of all the destruction he had wrought could only bring him pain, Cas feels his eyes welling. 

A gentle, but unfamiliar, hand presses down on his shoulder. “How we doing, honey?” 

Cas looks up to find an older woman, her greying hair tied back in a loose bun, pulling a pen out of the pocket of her scrubs before pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose and tapping at a chart. The name badge clipped to her floral pattern shirt reads Mandy. 

“This is...this is not my room?” 

“Good catch,” Mandy laughs good naturedly before inspecting the various machines to his side. “This is the PACU, post-anesthesia care unit, everyone comes here after surgery, so we can check up on you, make sure your vitals check out, make sure there’s no sign of a post surgical infection, that sort of thing. And for you, so far, looks like everything is checking out. So, I think we can get you back to your regular room here in a minute. What do you think?” 

Cas nods slowly, apprehensively.

Mandy takes note. "Something the matter?" 

“It is not a medical concern,” Cas takes a corner of his gown in his hand and absently inspects its geometric pattern, “Not a concern of yours." 

“You can still tell me if it’ll make you feel better,” Mandy says as she leans over his side. “Now hold still while I take a look at these stitches.” 

Cas braces himself as her hand grazes his tender skin. 

“My friend... Dean... he’s my neighbor. He brought me here. And... we, uh, we used to know each other, far better than we do. Yet I still asked him to stay. I’m no longer sure that was wise.” 

“You two have a complicated history, I take it?” Mandy asks, withdrawing her hand. 

“To put it lightly.” 

Mandy hums thoughtfully. “Are you really worried about him being here? Because if you think it’s going to cause a problem, we can ask him to leave. You let us know if you need us to.” 

“I’d much much prefer he stays. I’m just not certain he will. I was in pain earlier, and I made a selfish decision,” Cas says. 

“That he agreed with,” Mandy says firmly. “I doubt he would have if he didn’t want to.” 

“I suppose that is true, but Dean...Dean has a problem with his memories, and I fear that his being in a hospital will remind him of when he lost them.” 

Specifically, Cas fears that Dean will remember their first, and, so far, only kiss -- the one shared as Dean plunged the First blade into his heart. That Cas had used the kiss as an opportunity to breathe the last of his fading grace into Dean as a last ditch effort to heal the Mark. That worked. 

That Dean will remember, after the Mark had disappeared, sitting at his brother’s bedside, stone faced and hopeless, knowing that Sam was there because of him. Because he’d struck him down with that vile blade when Sam had tried, in vain, to stop him from going after Cas. 

That when Cas inexplicably returned from the dead, imbued with his own grace, in answer to all of Dean’s prayers, Dean couldn’t look him in the eye.

“When you say you used to know each other better, you really mean that, don’t you?” 

Cas’ eyes are brimming. “I really do.” 

Mandy pats his shoulder gently. “Oh, honey.”


	3. Chapter 3

The grace swims in Dean’s veins, cleansing him of the Mark. 

It drains his lust for blood and reminds him of who he is, who he once was, and who Cas, at least, still believes he can be. 

Before he can even really process that he’s made the decision to, he cups Cas’ cheek in his hand and kisses him back, desperate and needy and grateful. And Cas’ lips move fluidly with his and for thirty blissful seconds, he forgets what he’s done. 

He forgets that this is it. This is all they get. 

Then Cas hisses in pain, and he pulls back abruptly, watching in horror as Cas staggers backwards, eyes human and hazy. He catches him and tugs him back. He breathes into Cas’ hair as he slumps toward the grass, eyes closed, the first blade still lodged in his chest. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare.” 

He shakes at his shoulder, roughly, desperately, knowing full well the good it's going to do. He _knows_ he didn't miss. 

“Don't do this, Cas. Don't. I need you. I...Christ...” 

Cas is literally dying to save him, and he still can't get it out.

He inhales sharply before exhaling the long overdue confession. “I...I love you. Okay?” 

Cas shifts slightly, minutely, enough to give Dean some kind of hope, then he whispers, his voice thin and painfully strained, “I know. Dean, I’ve always known.” 

He squeezes Dean’s hand before going completely, eerily still. 

“Cas? Cas, come on! Cas! Castiel!” 

There's no answer. 

XXX 

As the memory fizzles out, Dean’s breathing speeds up and his hands start trembling. He looks at them and all he can see is the blade going into Cas’ chest, over and over again. 

He did that. He...he did that. 

He’s shaking all over when the door to the room creaks, and there’s a flurry of motion as the nurses get Cas’ bed and IV set up. 

And he doesn’t even feel like he’s there until a nurse presses his hand against his shoulder, eases him into the chair, and tells him to breathe. 

“Inhale, good. Okay, exhale,” he encourages in a steady loop, and Dean sluggishly pulls himself back to the reality of the hospital room, of Cas nodding as another nurse tugs his hospital gown back to inspect his stitches. 

And he sees the glimmer of a scar high up Cas’ left side, above his heart, and he thinks that Cas really _does_ have actual stab wound experience. 

And he’s probably going to throw up. 

The nurse starts to ask him if he’s had panic attacks before just as Sam appears in the doorway. Dean shrugs away without a word and pulls Sam into the hall. 

Sam’s eyes flick from Dean, to the nurse, who shrugs helplessly, and back to Dean. “Are you okay?” 

“Peachy,” he hisses as he tugs him further down the hall, until he thinks they’re out of earshot. “I...damn it, Sam. I _kissed_ Cas? Then I stuck him with a damn knife? Tell me this ain’t real.” 

Sam sighs and runs a hand through his hair before asking carefully, “What do you remember, exactly?” 

“Uh, we’re hunters? Casper and Co. are the real deal?” Dean says, wincing at the skepticism in his own voice. 

He knows, intuitively, that something’s been blocking all of this -- all of the things that go bump in the night -- out. But he knows that it still _sounds_ insane. 

Sam simply nods. 

He looks miserable about it, but Dean feels a little less like he’s losing his mind, if nothing else. “Okay. But the First Blade? The Mark of Cain? What is this crap?” 

“An incredibly long story,” Sam says. 

“And let me guess, I don’t want to hear it?” 

“No, Dean. You really don’t,” Sam says. “This whole amnesia thing? That was your idea. And Cas? He went with it.” 

Dean snorts. “Awesome. That's awesome. Can't wait to see what else got buried in this time capsule.” He rubs and pinches at his temple, as something else clicks, “Cas? Cas is human?” 

“Cas is human,” Sam agrees simply. 

XXX 

Human fatigue is something Cas can’t seem to wrap his head around. It seems so illogical that a routine surgery can make him so impossibly drowsy merely an hour after he first woke up. 

But once the hospital staff gets him settled in his room, he barely has the energy or the cognizance to get Sam’s attention as he sees Dean dragging him into the hall. 

He drifts back to sleep, praying that his worries about Dean, and his apparent panic attack, are misplaced. 

But, shortly thereafter, a tight grip on his shoulder has him blinking back into consciousness. 

And his first instinct is to reach for his blade, which, in his current condition is a mistake. He hisses in and twists himself into a less painful position before looking up to find Dean staring down at him with intent and concern. “What the _hell_ did you do, Cas?” 

“I was afraid of this,” Cas says as he continues to shift, unable to find a comfortable position. “I knew I shouldn’t have asked you to stay here. I’m sorry, Dean.” 

“That ain’t even close to an answer.” 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice carries from outside the door, “he just had surgery! Cut him a break.” 

“Cut him a break? I’m not cutting either of you a break. Spill, spill now, gentlemen. Spill it all. Because only knowing about 1/10 of what’s happened in my own damn life is getting really frigging old. And you two -- you two apparently know all the gory details.” 

The room goes silent but for the steady tick of a machine to Cas’ right. Dean looks between the two of them expectantly, simply waiting. 

Cas still doesn’t think now is the right time. 

“You didn’t want to remember them,” he says, wincing as he twists the wrong way yet again. “And I don’t think ...I don’t think I will be awake long enough to remind you of all the painful mistakes you made under the Mark’s influence.” 

Strangely, this somewhat callous remark softens Dean enough to help prop him against the pillows. “You ever think before you speak?” 

Cas just barely shakes his head before trying to fight his fluttering eyelids. “Should I be this drowsy? Is this normal?” 

Dean squeezes his shoulder. “Yeah. Totally normal. And fine, guess I’ll let you slide on account of the whole stitches and agony gambit you got going here. For now.”


	4. Chapter 4

After the memory grenade has blown, and Dean’s come to his senses long enough to realize that berating and harassing Cas, or Sam for that matter, isn’t actually going to fix anything, he makes himself scarce by volunteering to get Cas a change of clothes. 

It takes him far longer than it should to get back to his house, and once he’s there, and he’s climbed out of the Impala and onto Cas’ lawn, he just stands and stares at Cas’ front door. 

Because now that he knows, really knows, that’s it’s _Castiel’s_ house, there's a kind of normalcy to it that just seems wrong. 

Well, maybe not _wrong_ , exactly, but certainly out of place.

Like, Cas has a frigging living room for Christ’s sake. 

And the guy actually needs him to swing by his house for a toothbrush and a pair of sweatpants. 

It's ...it's bizarre. 

And now that he's here, taking in the oddity, he's noticing things -- things that wouldn't have made any sense a couple hours ago -- things that tell him that Cas has been hunting, or is, at least, far from out of the life. 

First, there's a circular rug inside the front door that when peeled back reveals a devil’s trap neatly carved into the hardwood. 

Then, the walls are lined with silver patterns that, at first glance, are merely decorative, but, at a second, to the trained eye, are actually Enochian warding sigils -- some of which Dean’s now almost certain he's seen hidden beneath his own fraying wallpaper. 

Finally, in Cas’ bedroom, there are several bags of rock salt piled neatly beneath the window as well as a vial of holy water sitting uncorked on the nightstand. 

There's a good chance, then, he realizes, that demons, ghosts, and who knows what else have been around the block. 

And Sam and Cas have been keeping the wool over his eyes for all of it. 

He avoids letting that really sink in by turning his attention to Cas’ retro phone, the kind he mostly expects to see in crappy motels. The kind no one actually uses anymore. 

It’s a landline, and it’s not even cordless. 

The TV set on the dresser across the room is just as out of date. 

“As weird and dorky as ever,” Dean grins, despite himself, as he rifles through Cas’ drawers for something comfortable. 

As he does, he tries to ignore the strange bubbling feeling that's growing in his chest, the one that the faded slightly torn picture that Cas has carefully placed on the mirror is doing nothing to quell. 

It's an old picture of him and Sam. He’s not even sure how old it is or how Cas came to have it. 

But now that he sees it, he thinks there should be more pictures, newer pictures, recent pictures. 

One of the three of them. One of Sam and Cas. One of him and Cas.

Because he should have been a part of all of this, of creating this mundane living space, of carving out this life. 

He knows he’s only been a door away, but it seems like it was so much much further. 

Because he didn’t know. 

He didn’t remember. 

And the feeling only grows as he finds Cas’ lone toothbrush in a chipped plastic bee-shaped holder that was clearly meant for a child. It’s the kitschiest, most personalized thing he’s seen in the whole house.

“Where did you even find this?” Dean muses as he tugs the toothbrush out. The toothbrush itself is completely inconsequential, compared to the mental image of Cas trying to navigate a garage sale without looking out of place, until Dean actually has it in his hand. 

Once it’s there, it morphs. 

It lengthens and the bristles turn jagged at the edges, and he jolts back. 

_The first blade_

He drops it in surprise. 

It hits the edge of the sink and clatters on to the tile below, looking again like nothing more than a toothbrush. 

He shudders. 

Even the phantom of the blade thirsted for blood. He could feel the echo of it’s hum beneath his skin. 

Cas had said he didn’t want to remember before. 

He thinks he’s starting to remember why. 

XXX 

The sun’s just starting to set outside the hospital window the next time Cas is fully awake. 

He blinks blearily and shifts uncomfortably, trying to sit up without jostling his IV. 

He looks up in surprise when a freckled hand reaches down to hold it in place. “Dean? You didn't leave?” 

“Well, yeah, I did. But, uh, came back,” Dean says as he tosses a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt onto the tray at his side. “Got you something to wear out of here.” 

Dean cranes his hand behind his neck and rubs at it. “You got word on when they’re letting you leave?” 

Cas’ hand grazes absently over his stitches, as his mind starts to loop through the logistics of his situation. He needs someone to take him home. He needs to call work. He needs someone to water his flowers. 

Having human responsibilities is very exhausting. 

He sinks back against the pillow and mutters, “No.” 

“Doc?” Dean says to the woman in a white coat that’s rounding the doorframe. Her name tag reads Dr. Fuller. 

“Tomorrow morning as long as there’s no sign of infection,” she says as she skims the computer screen showing Cas’ vitals. “Well, everything looks like it should ....how do you feel? Tired and sore?” 

He is tired. He is sore. 

So he nods. 

“Good. That’s normal.” She peels back his gown to look at the stitches. “Anything else?” 

There’s is another feeling, one that he can’t exactly identify -- a sort of all consuming feeling about his current situation. 

He’s worried about Dean’s continued presence and what it means. He’s worried about how he’s going to get around for the next 4-6 weeks -- which is how long the nurse told him recovery would likely take. 

He’s worried that he’s going to tell the doctor the truth, rather than following the human rule of saying he’s fine. 

And he does, in a way, as he very frankly speaks his mind. “The human body was poorly designed. I had no need for an appendix. This is all very inconvenient.” 

“Most surgeries are, Mr. Novak,” Dr. Fuller says with a good natured grin as she replaces his gown, seemingly satisfied, “though, if you're truly curious, there's considerable research on the purpose of the appendix.” 

Cas nods drowsily, briefly registering the quizzical frown Dean’s shooting at the floor. 

“I'll check on you again in the morning, otherwise a nurse will be up to change the bandage over the stitches and bring your evening dose of antibiotics.” 

As soon she's gone, Dean turns to him looking uncharacteristically nervous. “So, I'm going to take you home tomorrow. Uh, hang around for the day. Make sure you don't do something stupid.”

Cas tries to squint at him but he already feels tired and and kind of fuzzy around the edges. Dean lightly clasps his shoulder. “Like water your bushes.”

He tries to glare at Dean but he's sure the effect is lost. “They need water to survive.” 

“ _You_ need your stitches to stay in place so you don't end up back in here.” 

Cas nods solemnly. Dean is right. 

He’s drifting back to sleep when Dean’s hand begins trailing down his arm. 

It's a surprising but not unwelcome presence. 

His eyes are barely open when Dean murmurs, almost inaudibly, “We’ve got a lot of time to make up for, pal.” 

Afterwards, he leans down and kisses his temple before awkwardly shuffling out the door, bumping into the doorframe with the promise he'll be back first thing in the morning.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes forever to get Cas discharged. 

There's some kind of back log with the paperwork, and they won't let him leave without homecare instructions and paper copies of all his prescriptions -- three in all: an antibiotic, a painkiller, and a stronger painkiller. 

Dean hopes he only needs one of the them. 

Regardless, he gets Cas settled on the couch in his den and shoves a couple books and a laptop his way before tucking the prescriptions back in his pocket. “Guessing Netflix isn't really your thing with that monstrosity in your bedroom, but, uh, no ancient TV and no stairs. Not today.” 

Cas nods stoically, taking in Dean’s offerings before pointing out what Dean didn't bring him. “I need my phone. I will need to call work.” 

Dean blinks. 

Cas has a job. 

Right. Of course.

He knows that. 

Cas obviously has a job.

He goes somewhere almost everyday. Works irregular hours. Wears his trench coat. 

He'd thought the ill fitting coat was a very strange decision on his neighbor’s part, half wondering if there were Rolexes hidden under it. 

Now he's biting his lip at the absurdity. 

Cas is like a frigging cartoon character -- never changing clothes despite climate, social convention, and common sense. 

It makes the fact that he's currently wearing sweatpants and an old band t-shirt that much more amusing. 

“Lena will be disappointed. I was going to show the Duncan’s a station wagon... one that belonged to a WWII general.” 

“Lena, huh?” Dean asks, only half listening, still reeling from the idea that Cas is living a somewhat normal human life with a job and a house and an honest to God white picket fence. 

“Yes. She's the manager at the used car lot at which I am a salesperson.” 

“A salesperson?” Dean repeats skeptically, thinking he must have heard wrong. Or his brain’s short circuiting. Because, last he checked, Cas still owns a crappy Lincoln Continental. 

He even goes as far as to whip his head around to the front window to check for what he assumes is solid proof Cas should not be allowed to sell cars. 

And sure enough, it's still there. 

“Yes. A salesperson. I sell cars.” 

“You ...you sell cars?” Dean repeats stupidly, trying not to sound entirely incredulous, but he can't really help it. 

Cas raises his eyes as though daring him to disagree. “Yes. I sell cars.”

Dean blinks again before digging Cas’ phone out of his pocket and does the only thing he can think of that isn't questioning Cas’ career choices. “Here.”

Once the phone is in his hand, however, Cas sighs and offers an explanation. “I sell cars that are at least thirty years old. I learn their histories and origins and tell them to people... Lena says I sell history.” 

“Lot of research,” Dean says, still somewhat unconvinced of Cas’ abilities on this front but unwilling to outright question them. 

“There's enough of my grace still remaining,” Dean raises his eyes and Cas clears his throat, “limited fragments -- nothing you would consider ‘mojo’ --certainly nothing that would have helped recover your memories -- but enough for a car to tell me its story.” 

“Whoa. Hold up. You can talk to cars?” 

“No,” Cas squints thoughtfully. “Talk is not the right word...if I touch them...I can sense where they've been, who has been in them -- what those people were like. And the longer a car is driven, the stronger those sense memories become.”

The Impala’s keys jangle in Dean’s hand as he absorbs that. 

“Okay, _Spock_ , you saying you could mind meld with Baby if you wanted to?”

Cas looks at Dean like he's an idiot for questioning this. Like it should be obvious that mind melding with his most prized possession is, in fact, an easy accomplishment. “She needs little prompting... she doesn't think of highly of me as she does of you, or of Sam. But she does consider me...um...” 

Cas presses his lips together as he tries to find the right word. Dean’s pretty sure he can supply it. 

“Family.” 

Cas smiles. “Yes. That seems apt.” 

Dean grins, happy that at least that much hasn’t changed, and ruffles Cas’ hair. “You tell the boss you got to take it easy. I’ll be back.” 

XXX

Rain patters steadily against the window as Cas’ eyes blink open and closed over his laptop, only half paying attention to the house hunting show that he’d selected after realizing he didn’t yet have the mental capacity to keep up with the plot of anything. 

His cell phone begins buzzing against the wood of the side table, and he groans as he shifts to reach it. He's discovering that with an organ missing and stitches running down his side, there is no such thing as a comfortable position.

Thankfully, no one is there to witness his frustration. 

He squints at the caller ID with mild surprise. “Sam.” 

“Hey, Cas. How’s your side?” 

Cas nods to himself, grateful that Sam is checking in, then assesses. Roughly the same as before, he decides. “Sore. Stitches are uncomfortable. They itch.” 

“Yeah, they’re no picnic. Just be glad Dean didn’t do yours. He prefers whiskey to anesthesia.” 

Cas grins lightly at that. Anesthesia _was_ likely an improvement. 

“So, look, I know Dean took you home, and I don’t know what he said to you, because he’s Dean but, uh, I know he _thinks_ he's fine staying with you for a couple days, and I hope he’s right. But, uh, if he's not -- or even if you’re not -- call me.” 

Cas furrows his brow. “Dean didn't say he was staying.” 

“Cas,” Sam’s voice is filled with exasperation, “you know he's going to.” 

There's actually not a lot of evidence that that is true, based on the other times he's been hurt, Cas thinks. But he doesn't question Sam. “I will look after him, Sam.” 

“Yeah, I know. I know you will. That's actually kind of what I’m worried about...” 

Cas’ furrow deepens. “How...?”

“You're not completely up to snuff right now, and Dean’s going to need some time, whether he thinks he does or not, for things to go back to, well, whatever they're supposed to go back to.” 

Cas closes his eyes in protest. He knows Sam’s right, that Sam’s heart is in the right place even. But it's not at all what he wants to hear. Because he’s missed Dean, and Dean is a comforting presence right now. 

“You and Dean need each other, I know you do, but you're both in pain right now. Keep that in mind.”


End file.
